


Only On Slow Nights

by pennywife



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: Bisexuality, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Multi, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Self Confidence Issues, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23557921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: “There’s plenty of the man to go around.”
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams, Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams/Reader, Gomez Addams/Reader, Morticia Addams/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 107





	Only On Slow Nights

Morticia’s body moves like dark water beneath the light of the candelabras above, all but luminescent when her lover twirls her once more. A creature so rare when she spirals before the rows of eyes lined up to watch in awe; a vortex raging most violently, most elegantly, devouring everything as it passes by in her wake.  
  
She is _perfect._ She is a marbled statue carved by the hands of Michelangelo himself. The hairpin curl of her lips is so strikingly scarlet against her ivory skin that it draws the image of a thinly-sliced wound; aching, but still fresh enough that it hasn’t yet begun to bleed. She smirks when he peppers his kisses up the length of her arm towards the swell of her breasts. The candlelight glints like diamonds in her eyes; and at last she allows his mouth to seal gently against her own. She is the most beautiful woman anyone in this room has ever seen in their lives, and yet as your drunken breath hitches tight in your throat, it is not her who has stolen it away from you. 

_Gomez,_ you marvel, and your yearning grows stronger. 

He bears the soul of a poet, and eyes that tell tales of horrors you could never begin to imagine. His hips are scorched with fire; you can see it in the way he presses into the bodice of Morticia’s onyx gown; you can hear it through the shared wall of their bedroom late at night. In the ballroom he glides like a shark through black waters, a fin piercing the surface in a display of prowess and strength. Your eyes follow his frame across the filthy marbled floor, torturing yourself with the sight of him in that perfect new suit. He moves himself to the swell of the music as if he were made from it, as if it fills his veins and if you were to cut him open he would bleed out the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard in your days. All the bachelors at this macabre excuse for a gala, and all the men on this earth who choose the shadows instead of the light; yet not a single one of them measures up to the spirit of Gomez Addams. Not one. 

Your heart cries out each and every night for a man who isn’t yours, a she-wolf baying her love for the waxing of the moon. He lives in your dreams, polluting every thought and desire until you’re clawing at the sheets and cursing at God for putting you here to do nothing more than just ache. Vengeful He is indeed, this God. He placed in your chest the most ravenous of hearts, if only to see how beautifully a little thing like you could yearn. 

And _oh how you yearn._

Every time he looks at you, it’s as if he knows that there’s nothing about you that’s truly worth seeing at all. You aren’t like his wife, a breathing painting when she passes you by in the halls while you sweep. The outer edges of your breasts are marred with faded white stripes, ice-pick scars strewn deep below the delve of your delicate cheekbones. Days in the sun have left your skin littered with deep brown freckles, stretched over plump and dimpled thighs, over arms too stout to be delicate. To be tender. To be pretty. You’re too odd for this world, broken and uncomfortable and marred. Morticia Addams is the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, and you’re not a single goddamn thing like her. 

“My word… Aren’t they perfect together?” Someone beside you breathes in your ear. 

A fire in the sky raging against a cold and starless night, a perfect contrast in the eyes of any who look upon them, and yet, an extension of one another's soul as they stare into one another’s eyes. He loves her more than you’ve ever seen anyone love anything, more than your mother loved your father, more than you’ve ever loved yourself. He loves her with all of the air in his smoke-filled lungs, with all of the strength of his slow-beating heart. He loves her, as though his life would end if he didn’t. 

They move so fluidly. All the people in this ballroom, and yet to them, they are the only ones here.

Tears sting at your eyes. There’s a knife in your throat, singing to your soul full of lust with a voice like broken glass. No one has ever wanted you the way that this perfect man wants his ever-so-perfect wife, and you can feel it in your bones that no one ever will. 

Envy drags a blade across your neck, sending your glass of champagne shattering down onto the ballroom floor before you. Heartbreak chases you out into the courtyard, brings you down to your knees with the force of it. 

“How much more can my brittle heart take?” You ask aloud, to God, to the sky; dark and swollen with fat gray clouds and the promise of mid autumn rain. “How much more can I endure before my love for that man comes to an end?”

The sound of the music bleeding out from deep within the ballroom slows to a halt, the end to their beautiful dance. It marks the beginning of your terrible sobs, the hem of your dress dragging against the wet ground and smearing with soil from the garden. You throw yourself forward and bury your face in your arms to try and stifle the noise. 

She’s like a rose, you think, and your body trembles with mourning. She’s a rose, tall and black with poison-tipped thorns; and you’re but a common flower ripped at the stem. 

“Weeping, mon cher? On a night like this?” 

The voice plucks the color from your skin, pale as bleached bone when you whip yourself around to find the source of it. Deep and rich like blood freed from a vein; you know it to be Morticia before you even look upon her. 

“Well,” she says, with a grace like royalty. “I suppose it isn’t a bad idea.” 

Amusement sparkles in her coal black eyes, though her face stays somber as she looks down at the sight of you sniveling at her feet. Your mouth opens again and again before clamping back shut, and even through the blur of your tears you can see the sympathy as it pierces through the expression on her handsome face. Scarlet blooms in the apples of your cheeks, humiliated for having been caught during such a terrible moment of weakness and self-pity. You flatten your hand against the damp earth to try and raise yourself up, before all at once Morticia kneels down before you. 

She reaches out to you like death knocking upon a dying man’s door. Her finger is like ice when it brushes against the soft flesh of your cheek. She wipes free the tear from your eye in a way that only brings more, ridden with guilt as black as the tip of her nail when she drags it down slowly over an artery pulsing gently in your neck. 

“I see the way you look at my Gomez,” Morticia divulges, softly, and her words shake you to your core. 

Your guiltiness lies in the pit of your silence, unable to summon a lie. Her beauty is but a long barbed wire, leashing its way around your neck and then tightening; but there’s something in the way she looks at you that makes your heart slow in your chest. She looks at you as if you might shatter beneath the weight of her touch, and you look at her as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

A smile creeps over the width of her face, so faint you can hardly see it, like the waning of the moon behind the smoke-colored clouds; and you worry you may have said it aloud. 

“There’s no need to worry, dear child; no need to fret,” she assures you; without warning, without prompting. “There’s plenty of the man to go around.” 

At first her words don’t ring clear in your mind. They’re too perfect, too surreal; as though she were reciting them from one of your very dreams themselves. 

Something brushes then against the curve of your shoulder blade. It’s the flattened palm of a hand, featherlight; and just like with Morticia, you know who it is before you even turn to look at him. 

“Quite a bit, to be fair, though I would like to stay in one piece…”


End file.
